


cartography

by edgeofthewall



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-19
Updated: 2015-02-19
Packaged: 2018-03-13 18:17:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3391445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edgeofthewall/pseuds/edgeofthewall
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bellamy isn’t sure when exactly he stopped keeping track of how long they’d been on the ground by counting the days. All he knows is that now he counts by how many scars he feels on Clarke’s hand every time she grabs his.</p>
            </blockquote>





	cartography

**Author's Note:**

> whoooooo, my first bellarke fic! this is just a quick little drabble that popped into my head one night when i thought of how they would keep track of their time on the ground, and this popped out. i hope you all like it!

Bellamy isn’t sure when exactly he stopped keeping track of how long they’d been on the ground by counting the days. All he knows is that now he counts by how many scars he feels on Clarke’s hand every time she grabs his.

The last time he’d scratched a day into a tree at the edge of their camp was approximately three scars ago.

It’s not uncommon for Bellamy and Clarke to grasp hands. When they’re running through the woods and one of them starts to fall behind for whatever reason, what other option is there but to reach behind them and grab the other’s hand, giving them that extra boost of support? 

When she’s bending over someone who’s been hurt, biting at her lower lip in concentration as the sweat on her forehead blurs the dirt on her face, it’s natural for their hands to brush as he obediently hands her the tools that she needs. 

Her hands are rough, calloused, worn and broken in, the process repeated over and over from their days here on this planet that ended up being deadly for reasons far beyond their silly ideas of radiation. They are the hands of a doctor, of a princess, of a warrior, and of a friend, all rolled into one limb that can comfort you with a hand to the cheek and knock you out with one swift punch.

It’s these observations that make Bellamy realize he’s become a little obsessed with her hands.

He’s not entirely sure when his desire for hand holding that went beyond the necessity started, but he remembers when he acted on it. It happened early one morning, so early that he wasn’t even sure she’d actually gone to bed. He spots her leaving her tent to get water and jogs up beside her, and before he’s even realized he had thought to do it, her hand is in his.

That was the day he decided counting them had been a waste of his time.

The next time Bellamy takes her hand is a quiet night by the fire. A good day for hunting has every kid in the camp enjoying more than they’re used to, and it’s a nice change of pace to see everyone so full instead of so worried about how small their portions will be. The fire is reflected in her eyes as she eats, slowly and appreciatively, and Bellamy doesn’t even think about it as he covers her hand with his, and she allows it, flipping her hand so her palm faces up, and their fingers can lace together.

There’s a new scar on her palm this time, the skin still puffy and pink, and he feels it against the calloused skin of his own palm. Clarke can sense the question before he asks it and she shrugs in an embarrassed sort of way.

"I learned from my mother for as long as I can remember, and I can draw a straight line in my sleep, but apparently my hands still aren’t steady enough to extract a splinter without completely mangling the skin."

He thinks about kissing the scar, but he doesn’t.

Bellamy witnesses the next scar happen. She’s lost in thought as she helps Murphy refasten a bit of the wall that had come loose in a storm. He hears Murphy’s shout of warning, but Clarke notices just a bit too late as the metal paneling begins to give way. She throws up her hands to catch it, and for a moment Bellamy thinks she’s successful, until he hears her curse.

He’s by her side in seconds, eyebrows knitted together in concern, when she starts laughing, as if his heart attack had been a good joke. One of the corners caught the skin of her palm as she caught the metal, and as a result, she has a rough, jagged sort of gash almost parallel to the smaller line from her splinter incident.

Shaking his head, Bellamy ties a scrap from his already torn shirt around it, trying to fight the smile on his lips as he imagines what this scar will feel like against his hand the next time he decides to take it.

As he walks away, back to whatever he was doing, Bellamy wonders why he ever counted the days in the first place.

The third scar is his fault.

Tonight she’s in his tent, showing him maps she’s spent hours drawing on old, faded pieces of paper they tore from books that had been found on one of the various scavenging trips. They’re intricate, outlining where the territories of Grounders with whom they have peace treaties intersect with those they know to be hostile, and those they simply haven’t encountered.

"Clarke, this is-"

"Amazing? I know."

She’s not referring to the quality of her maps, he knows that. She’s referring to how many of those clans they have worked with to gain peace, still so fixated on hope that she can’t see she’s done a good thing here.

He takes her hand, feeling the roughly healed scar from her losing battle with the wall underneath his fingertips.

"No, Clarke. The maps. They’re amazing."

She looks surprised, but smiles in thanks, before ducking her head again to point something out on the map. She reaches off to the side without looking to pull another map to her, this one more detailed with neatly written explanations of the land, when there’s a flash of silver, followed by red, followed by a cry of pain.

He’d left his knife on the table, and she hadn’t seen it, and Bellamy suddenly wishes he were still counting the days.

Apologies tumble past his lips before he can even stop them, frantically looking for something to cover the gash on her hand. This one crisscrosses over the two almost perfectly parallel ones before it, ruining the pattern. Typical of him.

"Bellamy, it’s okay, I should’ve been-"

"No, Clarke, don’t do that. I shouldn’t have had it just sitting there." Sighing through clenched teeth, he finally finds a scrap of cloth to tie around her hand, his tough gentle, feeling as if he’s done enough already. "When I started counting the scars on your hands, I never thought I’d cause one."

Bellamy doesn’t even realize he’s said anything, musing to himself like one often does while they work, until Clarke is looking at him in surprise, confusion, and if he’s not mistaken, a little bit of glee.

"You count the scars on my hands?"

This is so embarrassing. So incredibly embarrassing. He’d really had to make sure he was on that stupid dropship and end up down here on this stupid planet with this stupid-

No. He can’t even think that.

"Yeah." Bellamy rubs at the back of his neck as he averts his eyes, though it’s hard to look away for long. He never avoids Clarke’s gaze when they talk, and he’s not about to start now. "I stopped counting the days we’ve been here… awhile ago, actually. And it seems like every time I take your hand, there’s a new scar. So I… just started counting them." His explanation is lame, but it seems to satisfy her. There’s something else on her face that he can’t quite read, and the confusion on his own prompts her to explain.

"I count your freckles."

This time, Bellamy is smirking. “Well, not all of them. They’re not all on my face, just so you know.”

"Oh, Bellamy, come on!" She’s laughing though, and he indulges her with a laugh of his own. Goddamn the princess and her ability to charm her subjects.

She’s serious now, looking bashful like he’d been just moments before, so he grows serious, letting her explain.

"I started to notice at the beginning of winter that your freckles are… they’re darker. Because your skin doesn’t get quite as much sun, even though you’re already kind of dark. So they show up more. Then as the warmer months come, they’re lighter, but there’s more. It’s like a calendar for the seasons."

He could marry her on the spot if he believed in such a thing. At least not for them. Marriage would never properly sum up what it was that he felt for Clarke. He wasn’t sure even he could sum it up.

"I think I like yours more." He reaches for her hand, the one he hadn’t just inadvertently caused further injury toward, and feels that her other palm is just as scarred, just as worn. "Should I start counting freckles on you?"

Her eyes are gleaming now. “There aren’t any on my face.”

Bellamy wants to say so much. To tell her what it does to him knowing that she looks at him to count his freckles, that she keeps track of seasons by what’s going on with his face. He wants to kiss away the scar he just caused and he wants to kiss away the chapped skin on her lips until they’re new, until she feels free of the wear and tear of this planet.

He settles for the answer she’s expecting, because being consistent is what they’re all about.

"I don’t mind going on a search for them."

She smacks him across the chest, and Bellamy thinks he’s found a new way to keep track of their time together.


End file.
